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the saddest blog that ever was
6.30.2003:
so i'm here at circ staring down at the cover of the book i recalled: "the blackwell guide to the modern philosophers from descartes to nietzsche.' its the kind of cheesy book novi(novices?) read if you didnt bother to learn anything in history 163A which of course i didnt i merely stared at the wavy black hairs on the back of that boys head but mr. moynahan was still nice and i still like catholics and i guess bard is moving up in the collegiate world so good for him maybe he's helping. and blackwell is the poor man's, or dumb man's rather, routledge, like phaidon is to taschen or is it the other way around with those two? its no october books lets just say. even its logo is a tacky "B" with a corinthian-esque pillar supporting the extended curves of the letter. why do i care? why do i talk so much? its the drugs i promise you. but really, why the cover? lo and behold, on the front of the guide to philosophers for those w/ middling academic ambitions and brainpowers is my favorite painting of all time. what is my favorite painting of all time? you'd be surprised but the design editors at blackwell sure werent. its caspar david friedrich's 1823 artic shipwreck located in the hamburg museum. you see it and you think, oh of course its cathy's favorite painting of all time, its so damn sad and theres this shipwreck and the jumbled, fragmentary planes of ice are just so cool and the quality of light is amazing...but when i first saw it many many years ago in a spell of cathartic conundrum (i feel so free!! wait i dont get it!! i feel so free!! wait i dont get it) between another pair of dusty bookjackets i didnt even notice the stupid wrecked ship and the outdated book said the title of the painting was the polar sea and that it had been lost and destroyed in the nineteenth century and thus did not even exist in three-dimensional form! do you see how that makes you love something, how loving something after is it already gone, therefore it having never actually existed for you in love, is even more delicious than loving the already there? i never saw the ship, i hate that ship, i never saw any human touch on that canvas till much later and by then (thank goodness) i had returned to the cerebral joys of duchamp's nude descending a staircase no. 2, my first favorite painting, and had started drowning myself in rothko's watery abysses. ahem so what's the fucking point? well, what is my favorite painting of all time doing there, used as so much advertising fodder to entice students to the modern philosophers? what niche does it fill to the random bookbrowsers of codys late at night. i hate it! i hate that eileen's brother who is my age also likes rothko, the smiths and my bloody valentine and he is so not me in that me way, no offense eileen. i hate that another of caspar david friedrich's paintings, wanderer above the mists (which is a far less superior work, he's not my favorite painter, this just happens to be my favorite painting) adorns the cover of terry eagleton's ideology and the aesthetic (which is a pretty allright book by the way sen do you still have my copy?) and i'm sure countless other respectable theory/art/philosophy/culture/literature type-things. why must i be sad and like german romanticism at the same time and thus epitomize the archetypical dreary dour neurotic girl who reads these books and likes these paintings? why dont i do my german hausaufgaben? i know i know, i'm not dreary nor dour but if i must fall why must it be like this, into the netted darkness with only the compass of my premanufactured dreams to guide me? i miss chris. i used to think that it was funny benjamin chose engineers over architects or artists for the future and its still funny cuz we have entities like brasilia which we should actually blame on the architects no? but now i also think his choice is delectably sweet. like aimee aw sweet sweet.
Blog // 10:45 PM
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